


you can sing me anything

by MildSweet



Series: The Book of Love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3134441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildSweet/pseuds/MildSweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg enlists a little help with his proposal. After all, there are very few people who can keep a secret from Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can sing me anything

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a bit of a goose, but i felt it needed to be done.
> 
> If you want to hear the song (the fic uses adapted lyrics, but still), then look up Peter Gabriel- The Book of Love.

"It was the younger brother, obviously. No-one else had any notion of that particular allergy- only the victim's sibling. More than that, he lied about himself in interrogation- what more do you want?"

"Brilliant," says John, and the smirk on Sherlock's face is replaced with a blush.

Most every Yarder thinks it a bit too much after a while, and usually Greg grimaces a little. He's never been sure if they're clueless or if they know exactly how they look.

Today, he smiles a bit, trying to ignore Sally staring at him in his peripheral vision.

 _Ah, well._ The two of them walk out, and Greg follows. "Sherlock, can I borrow you for a second?"

John turned, frowning. "Must you?"

 _Sherlock's really not having the best influence,_ Greg thinks, but instead of that he says "I really must."

Sherlock looks at Greg's lower lip, then at his hand, then back up. "Well, finally."

**~~~the next day~~~**

_*ring, ring*_

"Hello, Mr. Lestrade."

"Hello, Anthea. You know you can call me Greg, right?"

"I'm fully aware, yes, Mr. Lestrade."

"... Right. Anthea, I need to ask you a favor."

**~~~one week later~~~**

Mycroft is never surprised when Anthea walks in without knocking. They've known each other long enough that he recognizes her footsteps outside the door. He's really more surprised by what she says.

"Your car's outside, Mr. Holmes."

He frowns. "I don't have any more appointments today, Anthea."

She looks at him like he's a first-class idiot, but he tries not to notice. "Mr. Holmes, when your brother invites you to his flat, I put it on the schedule as soon as possible."

Mycroft is in the car within, oh, 10 minutes. _No rush, none at all._ Anthea's very glad for her poker face, sometimes.

**~~~5 minutes later~~~**

He's been rehearsing this for days, honestly, and Greg's only slight less terrified of fucking up than he was before.

"Lestrade."

The man himself looks up. Sherlock's got a look on his face that Greg's never seen before. _Gentle, almost, but not quite. Encouraging?_

"Relax."

Somehow, Sherlock telling him to relax seems the most natural instruction in the world, and he does.

**~~~7 minutes later~~~**

John's phone buzzes. "He's here, Greg."

"Off you go, then," says Sherlock.

"I know, I know." John's up the stairs fast, and into his room without more fuss.

**~~~1 minute later~~~**

The knocking at the door is Mycroft's usual pattern when he's actually going to wait for someone to open it. Sherlock gives Greg one last _(reassuring?)_ look, then speaks.

"Come in, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes opens the door slowly, stopping when he sees Greg standing in the room, in his nicest suit. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Shut the door and sit in the armchair, Mycroft," Sherlock cuts in, and Greg's glad he's not the one who said it, because Mycroft looks entirely, totally, _breathtakingly_ surprised as he steps forward. He closes the door gently, steps softly to the armchair (facing away from the telly) and sits, looking up at Greg as if he's never seen him before.

Then Sherlock's playing his violin, and Greg's taking a breath.

"Oh, **god** ," Mycroft whispers, even though he knew the moment he walked in.

Greg looks at him like a gift, and sings.

"The book of love is long and boring," he starts, then smiles. "No one can lift the damn thing. It's full of charts and facts and figures-" a quiet breath, "-and instructions for dancing."

"But I, I love it when you read to me. And you, you can read me anything."

"The book of love has music in it; in fact, that's where music comes from. Some of it's just transcendental," Greg sings, looking very much self-conscious, but also as if it doesn't matter that he is. "Some of it's just really dumb."

"But I, I love it when you sing to me. And you, you can sing me anything."

Sherlock plays a short solo, and Greg leans forward to kiss his forehead. Mycroft's not entirely sure if he's crying or not, and he thinks he should care but he really, really doesn't.

Greg moves back again, takes a breath, and looks at him. "The book of love is long and boring, and written very long ago. It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes, and things we're all too young to know."

Now he's smiling, he can feel it in his cheeks.

"But I, I love it when you give me things, And I, I want to give you wedding rings."

Mycroft is beaming. Sherlock does not look, doesn't need to. He knows.

"And I, I love it when you give me things, and I, I want to give you wedding rings."

Another short motif from the violin. "I want to give you wedding rings."

And then Greg's down on one knee, and he's reciting Mycroft's name, and Mycroft is sure his middle name doesn't matter, _really_ , but somehow he manages to wait

"Mycroft," Greg says. "Mycroft Edwin Holmes. Will you marry me?"

Mycroft nods and smiles. "Yes." And then they're kissing, just for a moment, and looking at each other.

 _It's far too sappy,_ Sherlock thinks, but he's done very well and he's _not_ going to ruin it now. "Congratulations, Mycroft. Greg."

Mycroft turns and looks at him with a thank-you in his eyes, Greg with a wry smile.

"Just this once," says Sherlock gruffly, and then he pads upstairs, and it's just the two of them, sitting in the living room of 221B, not alone at all.


End file.
